


Poker Face

by OberonsEarring



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring
Summary: A night of cards leads to some serious betting.





	Poker Face

Friday night and the beers were cold, the jalapeno dip spicy hot, and the boys pumped for their night in at long last. Poker nights were rare, what with all the missions and school emergencies, but tonight, with a bit of bargaining and finagling, they'd managed to keep their schedules clear and their pockets full o' pennies.

Bobby had the hardest time, trading a weekend of watching the pool outback for a Friday night off dorm duty. Warren, the luckiest as Psylocke had been all too willing to trade her Monday morning classes for Friday night patrol thanks to a nasty hangover and sunburn. Piotr traded with Kitty, Gambit with Rogue, Kurt with Sam, and Logan didn't have to trade with anyone as he simply demanded the time and Scott and Emma agreed.

Sitting down around the table, cigars lit up one by one, courtesy of the man with more claws than patience. They each checked the deck that Remy provided, taking their time to make sure the Cajun wasn't going to cheat this time. “One time,” he complained, “One time and you act like --”

“Shut it, Cajun,” Logan growled as he grabbed the deck of cards from Kurt's blue-black hand and looked them over suspiciously. “Your little scam cost me a month of beer money.” He tipped the cards front and back, ran his rough fingers over the gloss, and even smelled them. Finally satisfied, he put the cards on the table and popped a beer before settling back in his chair.

The game started out with one dollar ante ups with fifty cent raises, but soon progressed to five dollar starts and anything-goes-bluffs-and-hits. Logan dropped his twenty into the pot, his eyes green with greed over the amassing wealth. “He's not bluffing,” Bobby said to the chagrin of the other players. Folded first round, he anxiously munched on chips and dip while the others played their hands.

His words, however, cast enough doubt for Warren and Kurt to fold simultaneously, but Piotr and Remy still played the game. Piotr dropped his twenty with a bright smile on his face. Gambit, being a bit more adept at hiding his glee pushed his bill to the center and stared at Logan. “You're go, mon ami,” he said.

Logan grinned and raised another ten. Piotr countered with a ten on top. Remy called them all. The betting over, they showed their hands, and Logan came out the winner. Barely containing a whoop and a hoot, he laughed from the belly as he scooped the cash to his side of the table. “Gonna have to hire an investor for all this loot,” he said, eyeing Warren. 

The knock on the door was quiet an unassuming. The men put down their cigars, expecting that Emma had come to complain about the smell, or the noise, or whatever else had crawled up her nose. But, it wasn't Emma, it was Cyke, and that's when the boys jumped from their chairs and began to pick up their empty bottles and scoop errant ashes into the palms of their hands. Warren apologized most sincerely, explained that they'd have it all cleaned up, that they didn't realize they were being too loud, and that they promised to keep it quiet.

“Oh no,” Scott said quietly, “You're-you're fine. I'm not here for that.”

Bobby scratched his head in confusion. “You came to bring us more beer?” he asked hopefully.

“Well, um, sort of,” he stuttered in reply, hefting a case from the floor. “But, uh, I was actually wondering if I could play.”

A chorus of laughter filled the room, turning Scott three shades of red. He adjusted his visor out of nervousness and looked to the floor. “Slim, do you even know how to play?” Logan asked.

“No, uh, not really,” he answered. Hopes dashed, he set the beer inside the door, and turned to leave.

Logan winked at the boys, a sneaky grin on his face. “Emma gave him money,” he whispered to the others, and within moments, Scott was being drug into the room and seated at the center of the table.

The explanations were fast, with Scott scribbling notes on a napkin to keep the information intact, and the game began. Scott laid his twenty in the middle of the table, and watched as the others started placing their bets. Beer flowed and cigars smoked, the boys continued their raucous evening, even cheering Scott on as he raised the pot another ten bucks and waited for Logan to make his move.

“No way you got something this early, Cyke,” Logan needled, placing his own bill in the pot. 

Logan could see tells a mile away. Bobby chewed his lip when he had a good hand. Petey smiled, Warren stuck his eyes to the cards. Kurt's tail wagged, and Remy would keep the bottle to his mouth a second too long to hide the grin that would spread across his face. But Summers was a different story. 

The man's face was as harder to read than a trail in the middle of the Amazon. No matter how hard Logan stared, he couldn't see one twitch or flinch, no rolling jaw or twiddling finger. The man was a rock, and a rock that gave no sign of nervousness. Another round of betting, and the play came back to Scott. “Two hundred dollar pot, One-eye. You in or out?”

Without a word, Scott laid his twenty on the center of the table, and waited for the call. Hands down, Cyke won with a pair of nines. “Beginner's luck,” Remy sighed, and shuffled the cards for another hand. Summers didn't smile for his win, just watched the deal as it happened.

Another round of beers and a few more chomped on cigars, and Summers won the next four hands, two with bluffs, one with a full house, and another with four of a kind. Logan growled his frustration as he watched his winnings disappear bit by bit. Determined to show their leader-man who was boss, his betting became more vigorous.

Scott surprised them all by folding the tenth hand, throwing them all into a scramble to win the ever increasing pot. Three hundred, four hundred, a thousand, it was the biggest pot they'd ever played, and each was greedy to win it. Cyke sat back and watched the game, downing a beer and popping another one. Heartened by the flood of alcohol in his system, he even laughed aloud when Logan finally won the hand. “Good one,” he delighted and slapped the table, much to the shock of all. “Now you have money to play with.”

Taking a roll of bills from his pocket, Cyclops placed them flat upon the table and proffered up a sneaky smile. “Emma needs a new pair of shoes.”

Not a jaw didn't drop, not an eye didn't widen as the usually stoic man's mouth spread into a wide and beer-delirious smile. “You're a fucking shark,” Logan seethed glancing at the bills, then at Summers.

Though drunk and joyous between the plays, during the action, Scott was as focused on the cards as he was on a mission. Bobby plied him with another beer, hoping that his excitement would eventually fold over into the game, and Remy eventually brought out the whiskey hoping that it would loosen the man's jaw. Within an hour, Scott was a slur of a mess, which only made matters worse. What was once control quickly became a tornado; a complete stoic to a mash of expressions that didn't make sense. The boys sat in silence as Summers cleaned another round with a crooked grin and teetering hands. Another shot of whiskey and he reeled even further forward, resting his inebriated head onto his hand. “Emma really likes shoes,” he said, eyeing Logan's now meager stash. Pride and stubbornness, Logan had lost nearly all of his fortune. “I'll give you two hundred for yours.” 

“Five hundred,” Logan argued, to which Scott happily agreed. 

“Good! You have money again. Let's play!” Cyclops clapped his hands together, and snuffed down another shot of whiskey which made it hard to hold his cards. 

It wasn't long before Scott had won enough hands to buy everyone's clothes. Shoes, socks, shirts. They even sold their underwear hoping to get into the next round. Sitting naked, their eyes solely upon the table, the boys looked at the piles of money on the other side of the table. “I think I won!” Cyclops slurred, attempting to pick up his winnings with whiskey sloshed arms. He laughed as the bills and coins fell from his grasp and hit the floor.

“Not yet,” Logan growled, twirling his last quarter on the table. “All or nothing.”

Summers stared at the coin for long moments and then laughed. “That's not enough to play.”

“It is if I throw in a blow job.”

Red gaze pulled to ceiling, his lips punched up in thought as he considered the proposition. Kurt's eyes narrowed with admonishment. “He's drunk, Logan. He's not reasonable. You can't--”

“I can and I will.” Claws popped, a low snarl loosed from his stomach. “Come on, One-eye. Make up your mind. You a man or a wuss?”

“Emma wants shoes,” he finally said, looking down at his winnings. 

“Fine. Run away, leader-boy. What I'm offering is a once in a lifetime chance--”

“Okay. But you have to promise not to bite.” He dropped down another two shots of whiskey and rubbed his hands together. 

“Logan, he's seriously drunk,” Warren cautioned, not liking the strange look in Logan's eyes.

“Shut it, Wingboy. A deal's a deal.”

No matter the argument, no matter the plea, Wolverine remained intent on getting his way. Colossus helped heft the stash of clothes and money onto the table, and Logan added his quarter to the pot. Five cards dealt and the men stayed their faces. Cyclops raised his pair of shoes, Logan a second blow job. Scott his shirt, Logan a massage, and Scott's pants were given in hopes of earning an evening of homemade ramen and beer, along with a third blow job.

“Shouldn't you check with Emma, Scott?” Kurt trembled, feeling that the betting has gone to far. 

His face pinked from liquor, and his smile lopsided, Scott shook his head. “She told me to socialize, so I'm socializing.”

The pot set, Logan stared over Scott's near naked body. “What about your tidy whities, Cyke? Want to throw them in, too?”

“Why would I do that?” 

“I'll let you be on top.”

Scott's face didn't flinch, but everyone else's did. “No, no, no,” Warren sighed, hopping up from the table. He grabbed Scott's arm, attempting to get his friend away from the table. “This stops now.”

“He leaves the table, he loses the game,” Logan challenged. “Rules of the game, bub.”

“Scott, come on,” Bobby interjected, “Just say no, walk away. We'll come up with some excuse for Emma.”

The arguments came on swift then, with Warren, Piotr, Kurt, and Bobby trying to convince Cyke to leave and Remy having a ball as the men argued with each other. Another shot, and Scott's head bobbed to the table and back trying to understand the fuss. 

A pop of claws and everyone backed off, leaving Scott on his own to make his decision. “You got two choices, One-eye. Ditch the undies and meet the bet, or walk away and lose it all. Up to you big man.”

“Emma needs shoes,” he said quietly and put his underwear on the table. 

Logan beamed, motioning for Cyke to lay down his cards. Two pair, jacks high. A good hand, and apparently enough to win as the wild man tossed his cards in the air along with the entire deck. “You're one lucky son of a bitch, Scott,” he breathed, moving in closer to the very naked, very drunk man at the center of the table. The room evacuated quickly as Logan knelt down to deliver on his end of the bet.

“You should come to Poker night more often, Slim,” Wolverine said with a smile.

“Yeah,” Cyclops agreed. “I think you're right.”


End file.
